Pas deDeux
by Barbara Barnett
Summary: Written and xposted to Cuddy Fest for the prompt:  House watches Cuddy Dance


Title: Pas de Deux

Author: Barbara Barnett (aka sasmom)

Pairing: House/Cuddy (UST only)

Rating: G

Summary: Written for the Cuddy Fest. Prompt #132: **House watches Cuddy dance**. House, Wilson and Cuddy attend a mandatory hospital benefit and Poker Tournament. There are food and dance before the main event, and House observes Cuddy as she mingles and dances with guests. Takes place anytime after House Training.

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House examined his wristwatch for the fourth time in a quarter hour. The tables would open in forty-five minutes, a win-win for House. Poker for him; attendance at a black-tie fundraiser to please the boss: a perfect play if ever there was one to be had. But an hour for schmoozing and buffet dinner, that was almost, but not quite, too much to bear.

House eyed the crowd anxiously from his seat, half a level up from the crowd, as he sought out Wilson. Buffets were impossible for him to manage gracefully—different from the cafeteria—without calling attention to himself; eating was out of the question. He never drank alcohol when he played poker—let everyone else drink; let them lose their edge—better for him to win.

He was bored. Period. The band was decent, at least. The singer was better than the band, covering Ella Fitzgerald without trying to be her. He tapped his cane distractedly on the floor, out of rhythm, feeling its bounce as the rubber tip hit the linoleum, until, that, too ceased to amuse him. House was so bored, he was half tempted to ask the bandleader if he could sit in on a tune or two. He knew the guy after all; played with him once or twice. Bad idea. He was not quite that desperate.

Where the hell was Wilson anyway? House cast his eyes out over the dance floor. Doubtless Wilson had located some young, needy nurse to escort around the dance floor; try to grab her ass when he had the chance.

House's breath caught suddenly in his throat as his eyes settled on Dr. Lisa Cuddy. She was hovering on the fringes of the dance floor, mingling animatedly, as House paused to observe her. Her hair was loose and soft about her shoulders, a small spray of diamonds on a transparent comb seemed to make it glow in the dance floor's dim lighting.

He had only once or twice seen Cuddy's eyes sparkle with the sort of mirth that made him both gasp with desire and curse himself for it. His eyes dropped ever so slightly lower to the delicate velvet cord that looped around her neck and the filigree heart dangling from it. House's perusal of Cuddy was stopped short as a youngish man approached her. Cuddy blushed at his words, looking briefly away and up through the crowd, incongruously in House's direction although he knew she had no idea where he was seated—or even that he was seated. But for a brief second House could swear she was looking right at him. And her gaze sent rivers of desire coursing through his veins. As Cuddy accompanied the man to the dance floor, her gown swept behind her: all Victorian silk and lace; a sea of shimmering sapphire. House finally exhaled, blinking to break his stare, then losing her on the dance floor as she disappeared into the swaying couples.

The female singer crooned:

"Now you say you're lonelyYou cried the long night throughWell, you can cry me a riverCry me a riverI cried a river over you…"

House felt suddenly bad about having interrupted her date with that oil-chain guy months before. He hadn't really thought about it since then, but he would have been good for her. Cuddy deserved to be with someone. Anyone. She'd wanted to be a mother. She wanted a relationship. She should have been able to have both. One he could not control; the other, he had no right to try to control.

"Whatcha doin?" Wilson startled House from his concentration as just he spotted her out on the crowded floor.

"Tallying up the combined value of all those diamonds out there. Plannin' a heist later after they're all drunk." Nice cover, he thought.

"Yeah, because simply beating them at poker isn't enough of a thrill for you, right?"

"Something like that," House countered distantly as his eyes found Cuddy again.

"Hey House."

"What?" House's annoyance was unmistakable. "So you couldn't find any rich old ladies to dance with; or a young, needy one? Be more your style, I suppose."

"Seriously, man, who are you watching with such great intent." House sighed, frustrated. Wilson was apparently not going away.

"I sit, I watch, I imagine. Better than actually dancing. No blisters; no stepped-on feet. I listen to the cheap Ella knock off croon; watch the dancers… I've already figured out who's sleeping with who's wife and who's going to give the biggest donation…"

"Well, you have fun." House declined to reply, leaving Wilson to sniff out a new conquest. House stared out over the crowd, again spotting Cuddy, who now seemed to be dancing awfully close to that guy. She twirled, giving him a glimpse of her lovely… That dress--the bodice cut like a Victorian corset before it flowed into… No dean of medicine should be allowed to dress like that. On the other hand… Thoughts rambled directionless through House's head as he continued his vigil.

She was talking, now, to her partner, as they danced. More smiling; more blushing. He had never seen her more beautiful; and he could barely stand it, to watch her so happy, as she glided effortlessly in that donor's arms, the gown sashaying behind her in time to the slow ballad. And then she suddenly vanished from his sight as the song ended, leaving House bereft, missing her keenly, as if he, himself had swept her around the dance floor. He sighed deeply, regretfully, wishing he had a drink more potent than a Coke at the moment, in which to drown himself. He popped a vicodin, washing it down. It would have to do.

House had never thought much about dancing after the infarction had made it impossible to even consider. Never been much of a priority. Sometimes just walking; just getting out of bed in the morning was enough of a challenge, never mind the exotic endeavors like dancing or running or tennis. Or dancing. With Cuddy.

House was startled from his thoughts by a hand laid gently on his shoulder, barely there, and the scent of lilac. "Hey." Her voice was as soft as the silk of her gown brushing against him; sending chills down his spine as she moved past him to sit opposite him. "You OK?" She inquired when he hadn't even acknowledged her presence. He nodded slightly, drumming his fingers anxiously on the table between them.

"You're not dancing," he observed.

"I was. I just…" In truth, she had seen him from the dance floor, watching her, as her partner turned her in his direction. She thought she had glimpsed a subtle yearning in his eyes as they followed her, replacing the cynicism and hardness that so often resided there in more recent years. Her breath had been taken away by the sight of him, sitting, his expression melancholy, his eye seeking her, shining sapphire in the subtle glow of the makeshift hospital ballroom. They drew her like a moth to gaslight on a warm summer evening. And it had made her blush even as she danced, making nice with a donor's son.

Cuddy looked away. "You look nice, House." Even seated, the elegant frock-coat of his tux suggested the gentleman beneath the scruff (albeit neatly trimmed for the evening) and normally harsh demeanor. The stiff Victorian wing collar and white tie emphasized the angle of his jaw and the intensity of his eyes. "Nice" was understatement in the extreme.

"Not bad yourself. That color…" He knew he sounded too earnest, too… He trailed off as she waited for the punchline; the dig. None was forthcoming. House's eyes raked over Cuddy, finally catching her eyes, speechless, suddenly shy. As was she. They simply sat there, a simple gaze suggesting more than words might ever articulate. The moment was broken as harsh feedback came through the speaker system. The interruption was both unwelcome and a relief to both of them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would begin to make your way to the gaming tables, they will be open in five minutes. The fifth annual Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital Poker Tournament will begin at exactly nine p.m."

"Guess we'd better get our chips." House nodded, as shy smile crossed his features. "Hey, Cuddy, I heard a rumor that the winner gets to take home the dean of medicine for a night of wild passion."

"Only if YOU win, House," she answered, a wicked smile crossing her features as she rose from her chair and moved off to blend with the crowd.


End file.
